


Night of the Hunter

by the_parallax_of_rain



Series: And Yet Here We Are [3]
Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension, but also tension in general, they fight the assassins together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24622243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_parallax_of_rain/pseuds/the_parallax_of_rain
Summary: He hears footsteps and sure enough, there’s Lalo coming up beside him. Dangerously close. “I won’t waste time with this if you don’t want me on your side, Ignacio.”“I came back, didn’t I?” he responds, half-frustrated, half-pleading.Lalo tosses his gun, turns to face him. Next to the weak light from the fireplace, his eyes glint dangerously, his pupils dilated even in the darkness. A challenge, perhaps. “Then show me that you’re committed.”Nacho bleeds for Lalo.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Series: And Yet Here We Are [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738741
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	Night of the Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the next installment, finally! I mentioned in the last part that there would be a “fallout” between Lalo and Nacho…well, joke’s on me because that didn't happen :)
> 
> Assassins have also been made slightly more competent.

“All you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

Don’t you ever tame your demons, always keep ‘em on a leash”

~ Arsonist’s Lullabye, Hozier

* * *

The first time he had ever found himself staring down the barrel of a gun had been during a territory dispute. It had been a scorching day, and the cracked wasteland underfoot stretched before him as far as the horizon. Through the shimmering heat, the gunman’s hand trembled slightly, as if he was second-guessing his own brash decision. Nacho wondered what the right thing to do in this scenario was: whether to keep his eyes open or closed, whether he should let himself watch the gun go off – and then Tuco tackled the gunman with a roar and the shot that would have hit him went towards one of their men instead. Afterwards, Tuco had reassured him about the death (“he was a little bitch anyway, you could hear him thinking about ratting us out”), leaving Nacho wondering if Tuco would have said the same about him had he died in the man’s place. He had resolved to get closer to his boss to avoid that happening. 

Many years later, he had been forced to sit in a car along the side of a deserted road, in that same stretch of desert that had become more green and yet more desolate, his friend slumped dead in the driver’s seat. He had looked the other way, bracing for impact, and the deafening sound of his pulse in his ears nearly drowned out the sound of the gunshot – he had never known anything as hot as the feeling of his own blood blooming across his shirt. The shrubs and dry grass crackled beneath him as he collapsed, fingers so slick with blood that he could barely grasp the phone thrown down beside him. Through the haze of pain and nausea, he remembered staring upwards at the impossibly blue sky until help arrived.

Nacho reminds himself that he is no stranger to threats on his life. These days, he’s spent more time staring down the gaping maw of danger than not. But the muted fear still remains after all this time, swirling up from the pits of his stomach. And for some reason, it’s stronger now. All this is to say that Nacho’s past has a way of catching up to him, and all those times where his life’s been dragged out and prolonged have merely brought him to this climax. 

He tells Lalo about Arturo, about Fring, about the night his father had come close to being shot right in front of him. About the men who will be paying them a visit tonight. As he finishes pouring forth his secrets, he tries to think of how to get himself out of this but comes up empty. Whatever promises or assurances he makes to Lalo now are surely poisoned with the prospect of future betrayal. 

He isn’t prepared for Lalo’s fingers to slowly encircle his wrist. “And that’s all?” Lalo asks. His face is cast almost entirely into shadow, expression unreadable. 

“Yeah,” Nacho breathes. “That’s all.” 

Lalo’s grip tightens. “So, just to recap, you’ve been working for Fring behind my back, for quite some time apparently. And now you’re telling me that there will be a shooting to take me and my people out. Tonight.”

“Yeah. I know it sounds bad, but if we go back now we can – ” 

“What’s the hurry? You said 3 AM, right? There’s still time.” Lalo’s grip has become vice-like, exerting a painful pressure against his wrist bones. “Tell me, what did he offer you that we couldn’t?” 

Nacho’s blood runs cold. He shoves the thought of pills, threats, and Hector Salamanca out of his mind. “Fring didn’t offer me anything. Like I said, he _made_ me work for him.” 

“Are you _sure_? The Ignacio Varga I heard about before coming up north would never have yielded to that sort of thing.” 

A hot flash of irrational anger overwhelms Nacho at the mention of his past self. Try as he might, he can’t remember what it feels like to be that person anymore. “I didn’t want to comply, but I couldn’t see my father killed because of my refusal.”

Lalo scoffs, runs a hand over his face. “You know, if you had told me earlier, I could have helped protect your family. I mean...” Lalo finally releases him, and Nacho shivers at the unpleasant prickling as blood flow is restored to his fingers. “You were basically halfway to becoming a Salamanca.”

He does not allow himself to dwell on what could have been. He drops his gaze to the ground, at the spot of sand they had disturbed earlier. There has to be a way to make Lalo understand. “I did the only thing I thought I could do at the time. I didn’t know anyone who might help.” 

“Could’ve used a little foresight then,” Lalo replies, in a stinging tone that Nacho is probably reading into too much to find a hint of his usual joke in there. “A fine trade, your papa’s life in exchange for me and the rest of my people.”

Nacho argues and argues, and he is resolutely _not_ losing. “I told you, you were supposed to be the only target. I got the call out of nowhere, I didn’t even know he was planning anything.” 

“Ah well, it hurts, doesn’t it, to know that our friend doesn’t let you in fully on his plans?” Lalo draws himself closer to Nacho. The accusation is written into the hard lines on his face, into the beginnings of a snarl on his lips.

“I asked them to let everyone else go.” His throat burns. The words, spoken with all the fire he can muster, feel ashen as they leave his mouth. 

“You really thought they wouldn’t tie up loose ends, huh? My people, if they found me dead in the morning? You better believe that wouldn’t go down too well.” 

He thinks of Marco and Leonel, walking into that compound and unleashing a hailstorm of bullets. He thinks of Tuco’s enraged expression upon realizing someone had the audacity to point a gun at one of his associates.

He cannot look away from the intensity of Lalo’s gaze. 

“This is not just about everyone back at the house, or even the assassination,” Lalo continues darkly, and it’s the closest thing to anger that Nacho has ever seen him express. “No, it’s the fact that it came from _you_.” Lalo’s breath curls threateningly over the bridge of Nacho’s nose, sending a chill running down his spine. “Why should I trust anything you say now?” 

“I guess it depends on what I mean to you,” Nacho hears someone say, and even then he can’t be sure if his thoughts have translated properly to his voice, or why he even thought that in the first place. For the first time since Nacho’s known him, Lalo appears to be lost for words. The air around them is heavy with all that’s unsaid between the two of them. 

And then the man erupts into laughter - harsh, mirthless - and Nacho doesn’t know whether to feel unsettled or horrified, but all he knows is that he never wants to hear that sound again.

“Lalo, I - ”

“Surprisingly,” Lalo exclaims, running a hand through his hair, “it’s not the first time my most trusted associate has turned on me. And, would you believe it, that guy didn’t have the guts to go through with it either!” He lurches to his feet, and kicks some sand over the smoky remnants of the fire. “Some things never change, huh?” 

And Nacho has nothing worth saying in response to that. 

His laughter still echoing in the suddenly cold air, Lalo walks over to where their horses are tied up, calling over his shoulder, “You coming, Ignacio?” 

His heart hammering a breathless rhythm in his chest, he wanders back towards Fortuna, who swings her head around and fixes him with her doe-eyed gaze. His hands shake with exertion as he slowly unties her from the post. By the time he tugs her free, Lalo has already mounted his horse and they have begun to head back down the trail.

“What will it take to just get a break sometime?” he murmurs to the golden mare, who twitches her ears sympathetically. 

* * *

Yolanda cries into Lalo’s shoulder as he breaks the news to his staff about their impending visitors. Nacho leans against the doorway to the kitchen, guilt fluttering at his heels as he tries to stop from intruding on this private moment. He watches Lalo comfort the cook, while giving instructions to the rest of his men, all gathered at the kitchen table with somber looks on their faces.

From what he can surmise, the plan is to get everyone out of the house so that Lalo can deal with the assassins alone. Of course, he’s already told Lalo that it might be wise to have back-up, in case he gets hurt, but Lalo had just waved his concerns off with a breezy “these fools would just be a liability to me”. He tries to imagine Lalo pulling a Marco-and-Leonel and annihilating the entire group of assassins on his own, without batting an eye. He supposes now isn’t the time to try to reconcile that image of violence with the tenderness that Lalo had shown him earlier that night, or the way Lalo is wiping away Yolanda’s tears with a murmured _“todo estará bien, querida”._

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, lost in thought, but the scraping of chairs jolts him back to the present, as Lalo dismisses the group and everyone begins to file out through the corridor leading to the front door. Lalo makes his way toward Nacho. “So I’m gonna stay here and settle things. You’ll be taking everyone to one of our safehouses.” Lalo tosses him a set of keys. “There’s five locations, pick one at random and Miguel will give you directions. They’re all a good distance away, so you should leave now.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay here?” He gazes up into Lalo’s face, watches the lines on his forehead soften. Lalo reaches over to pat his shoulder, inches away from the bullet lodged there from Nacho’s last brush with death. He restricts the instinctive urge to shy away from any contact that dredges up those unpleasant memories. 

“I would not ask you to put yourself in harm’s way for me or my people. That’s not what you’re here for.” 

“And what about the horses?” Nacho throws a glance out the window towards the shed where he had left Fortuna. He imagines her standing there grumpily, perhaps feeling left out - and an ache settles over him at the thought that he might never see her again. “Do they leave with us too?”

Lalo gives him a slightly insulted look. “I’ll take care of them, man. Just go.” 

It isn’t until he gets into the car and they begin the drive towards the safehouse that Nacho realizes perhaps Lalo doesn’t want him back there because he would also be a liability. 

The twenty minute drive feels like it takes hours. The entire way there, a thick silence hangs over the passengers, and Nacho wouldn’t be surprised if they were all plotting to toss him out the window for his betrayal of their boss. He drives as fast as he can, focusing on the thrumming of the engine and the smooth leather of the steering wheel beneath his fingers. When they finally arrive at the safehouse, fairly ordinary-looking and much, much smaller than Lalo’s estate, he parks the car outside the front gate, feeling oddly empty. The emptiness doesn’t subside as they enter the house and everyone settles down in the living room. 

Nacho leans against the wall, feeling out of place. His gaze wanders towards the group of men in the far corner of the room, talking quietly amongst themselves. He listens to the soft clicking of Ciro’s lighter as he nervously tries to light a cigarette. He hasn’t smoked in forever, it seems, but now he longs for the feeling of a long, slow drag - for the feeling of anything but air in his lungs. 

Then there’s the warmth of someone’s hand resting on his arm. Glancing up, he sees Yolanda standing before him, the remnants of tears still glistening in her eyes. 

_“Te preocupas por él,”_ she observes simply, and he doesn’t need to respond because there’s really no point in lying, is there? Sometime later, after Yolanda has left him to his own devices, in between waves of melancholy, he makes up his mind. 

He doesn’t realize that he is heading out with no weapon on him until he feels a tap on his shoulder, and Miguel is reaching over to press his gun into Nacho’s hands. _“Buena suerta,”_ the guard says. Nacho glances back at the rest of the room. Yolanda talking in hushed tones with Ciro, who’s twisting his shirt and trying not to let his nerves get to him. Cecilio in the corner with his head slightly bowed, as if in prayer. And all the other guards, standing there silently, waiting for his move.

* * *

He doesn’t remember much of the drive back to the estate. For all he knows, he might have almost crashed once or twice, at the speed that he was going. At last, he sees the formidable walls looming before him. He brakes hard and even as he exits the car with his gun drawn and ready to shoot, some part of him still clings to the hope that maybe the assassins have changed their mind about coming.

But the back gate is open, and the faintest smell of blood permeates through the warm night air. With a sinking feeling, Nacho bolts towards the entrance, cursing the group for being so punctual and fearing he’s too late and that Lalo is - 

His breath hitches at the carnage laid out before him. 

He counts a total of four bodies strewn across the yard, grass painted black with blood, with their weapons still in hand. By the light emanating from the small fireplace near the gate, Nacho can see that the person closest to him is lying with his arm twisted at an awkward angle - no doubt broken. A deep gash in his neck seeps slowly, and his eyes stare blankly skyward. As he walks towards the house cautiously, he can still hear the rattle of one of the assassins’ dying breaths.

He scans the surroundings, and something jumps inside of him as he sees Lalo leaning against the side of the building, hidden almost completely from any other vantage point. Lalo is in the middle of reloading his gun. His lavender shirt is rumpled and dark with what looks like blood, and as he straightens up, he appears to be favoring his left leg. His hair is windblown, messy, framing a face etched with quiet determination. Nacho meets his gaze and then he sees it - the focused fury Lalo normally keeps locked away now smoldering unrestrained within the dark depths of his eyes. 

The sight takes his breath away.

Lalo holds up six fingers for him to see. _Six people total._ After Nacho nods in understanding, he then points off to his left, and mimes pulling a trigger. But before Nacho can give any more thought to that, he sees a subtle movement behind Lalo, hears the soft crackle of boots against gravel, and doesn’t hesitate. He fires blindly into the shadows, and there’s the sound of a man crying out in pain, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. 

And then from across the yard there’s a sudden flash of gunfire, and something hot sears against his right arm. With a startled yelp, Nacho throws himself to one side, out of the line of fire, falling to his knees in the grass. He grasps his arm and feels the wetness bloom underneath his fingers. _Shit!_ Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the assassin that Lalo had pointed out stalking towards him. Dazed, he adjusts the grip on his gun, finger trembling slightly against the trigger, and raises it to shoulder-height. 

But Lalo gets the man before he does. The resulting shot rings out thunderously and when Nacho’s ears stop ringing, he notices their adversary has dropped to the ground, clutching his side.

Lalo moves towards the injured man, limping slightly. The man coughs, draws in a ragged breath. Lalo crouches down so that he’s practically kneeling on top of him, laying an arm across the man’s chest to restrain him. Nacho can hear them speaking in Spanish, the man’s plaintive ramblings about there being a middle man followed by Lalo’s quiet assurances that he knows already, and that he just needs him to make a call.

By the time that Nacho makes his way over to them, still some distance away, Lalo is standing up, and rests one foot upon the man’s chest to keep him down. “As far as they’re concerned,” he informs Nacho, “I am now dead.”

“Do you really think they’re gonna buy that?” 

“Of course not! It’ll just buy us some time. And plus, staying off the grid?” Without breaking eye contact with Nacho, Lalo aims his gun at the man’s forehead. “Not really my thing.” He fires a single round, and the man slumps back onto the ground. Blood spatters across the wooden deck, and Nacho suddenly recalls the desert again, with Tuco and the gunman and their associate bleeding out in the dust, his fading breaths punctuated by a terrible gurgling sound. His look of terror and surprise is echoed on the face of the fallen assassin.

And once again, he thinks dimly, the fragile boundary between life and death tips in favor of the hunters, as they watch the man expire before their eyes, dark red liquid still bubbling sluggishly from his bullet wound.

With the man’s death, all pretense is stripped away. He hears footsteps and sure enough, there’s Lalo coming up beside him. Dangerously close. “I won’t waste time with this if you don’t want me on your side, Ignacio.” 

“I came back, didn’t I?” he responds, half-frustrated, half-pleading. 

Lalo tosses his gun, turns to face him. Next to the weak light from the fireplace, his eyes glint dangerously, his pupils dilated even in the darkness. A challenge, perhaps. “Then show me that you’re committed.” 

An urge festers within him, a stirring mixture of frustration and restless energy and _something forbidden_ , and Nacho almost trips over his own feet as he pushes Lalo against the side of the building, one hand reaching up and curling into his hair. Lalo growls from deep within his throat, and lights Nacho’s blood on fire beneath his skin. They are swept closer together in a haze of blood and sweat, and when their lips meet he can taste salt and smoke. This is nothing like the drowning embrace they had shared on the hilltop. This is hungry desperation, a fight for control, the highest form of persuasion he can muster. He wonders what it would feel like to have Lalo come undone in his arms.

They break apart just as suddenly. Lalo licks his lips, a small smirk spreading across his face. He seems satisfied.

Keenly aware of his own stuttering pulse, Nacho lowers his gaze. The obscenity of the situation is not totally lost on him - kissing each other not five feet away from a dead man they had just killed, and who knows how many others there are scattered around the yard? He distracts himself by brushing his thumb over the burned patch on Lalo’s sleeve. His fingers come away smeared with blood. “Did you get hit?” he asks. 

“Nah.” Lalo glances down at him amusedly, eyes lingering on his right arm. “That’s your blood.” 

“Oh.” The burning pain, relegated to mere static within the cacophony of sensations and adrenaline that had consumed him, returns full force. He remembers gripping his arm earlier, feeling the warmth growing around the torn flesh, seeping through his shirt. _Oh right._

Lalo bends down slightly to inspect the wound. “Well lucky for us, looks like the bullet just grazed you, but it’s still pretty big. Come.” Lalo takes a hold of his other arm, tugging him towards the house. Nacho lets him take the lead, as they make their way through the dark corridors and pass through the kitchen and into the bedroom. Lalo sits him down on the bed, and retrieves a small box and a wet cloth from the adjacent bathroom. He opens the lid to reveal an assortment of medical supplies: a roll of gauze, some tape, a variety of sewing needles, spools of thread of different colors. “Okay, shirt off,” he commands, taking out what he needs and laying them on the bed.

Nacho struggles to peel his shirt off one-armed, wincing as the bloodstained fabric clings to the edges of his wound. As Lalo starts to thread the needle, he reassures himself that out of everything that’s happened in his life, having an untrained cartel member approach him with impromptu suture equipment is just par for the course. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with that?”

“Like you could do better?” Lalo chuckles, holding the cloth to his arm and starting to wipe away the dirt and blood caked around the injury. “It’s easy enough to learn, and good to know in the business. There’s too many eyes in hospitals, you know? Can’t be running off to them with all this cartel stuff.” At Nacho’s dumbfounded look, he continues leisurely, “Don’t worry, I’ll make it look good. Hey!” He fishes out the black and red spools of thread. “We can match it with your outfits, yeah?” There’s a mischievous smile on the other man’s face, and it’s almost as if the paradigm of their relationship hadn’t fractured, as if they hadn’t forged an allegiance based on shaky ground.

The bed dips as Lalo sits down next to him, pinching the edges of his wound together. He doesn’t feel the needle go in, focusing on the gentle pressure of Lalo’s fingers on his skin. 

There are still things he has to figure out, and before he does, he can’t let himself just fall into their pattern of easy, light conversations as they always do.

“What were you trying to prove in asking me to leave with them?” he asks. “How’d you know I would be back?” 

“You thought that was a test.” Lalo doesn’t look up from where he’s focused on Nacho’s arm. His hands barely shake as they guide the needle in and around the wound, and as he knots the thread Nacho sinks into the heat from their closeness. “I meant it, Ignacio. You could have stayed at the safehouse with them.” 

The stitches tighten and pull the edges of the wound together, and as he bites back a groan of pain, he thinks he hears Lalo whisper an apology. “Well, I couldn’t just stay behind this time. And good thing, because like it or not, I was here to save your ass,” he forces out. 

“Well, technically I saved yours too, but I appreciate it.” Lalo meets his eyes, and he sees a blur of emotions within their dark depths, untouched by the dim light of the bedside lamp. The light illuminates a smear of blood on Lalo’s cheek that could be from either of them, or from one of the men outside, and Nacho says nothing as the other man’s gaze flickers across his torso, lingers briefly on the old bullet injury bruising his shoulder, then travels lower. Lalo opens his mouth slightly as if to question him, but seems to catch himself.

“I’ve been doing things on my own for a long time. It’s safer that way, at least for me, to not depend on others.” Lalo leaves the rest unspoken, and any lingering hurt and disappointment he might be feeling at Nacho’s betrayal is shuttered away completely. They lapse into a routine, with Lalo closing up his wound and Nacho staring into the distance, counting the number of geometric repeats on the bathroom floor or the number of loose threads on the rug in front of Lalo’s wardrobe, doing anything to reverse his dizzying thoughts from consuming him wholly until he realizes that silence is and has always been the real problem.

“I know you said you’ve been through this whole thing before, but to be honest, I don’t know why you’re so…okay with it.” Nacho’s murmur breaks the comfortable silence between them, as Lalo finishes stitching his wound and begins to wrap it with gauze. And fuck it, what else does he have to lose? He decides to prod deeper. “But I just need to know if we’re...good now. Or if this is something I need to worry about, or if you’ll use it against me.” 

“You wanna know what I think?” Lalo’s fingertips ghost over the bruise he had left on Nacho’s wrist from their earlier argument. “You were made aware of a threat and helped me avoid it. That counts for something.” A smile curls haphazardly across his face. He finishes tying up the gauze with a flourish. “I mean, you could’ve just sat back and let them kill us all. I guess I should really be thanking you.” 

“Are your standards really that low?” Nacho can’t help asking. “That helping you avoid a murder that Fring – that _I_ – helped _orchestrate_ is now a point for me in your book?" 

Lalo reaches out a hand to stroke his cheek, and Nacho shivers involuntarily at the roughness of dried blood against his skin. “Well, you changed your mind, didn’t you? And plus, there’s a way to make it even better.” Lalo’s voice lowers to a sultry purr. “You could help me take down Fring.” 

“I – ” Nacho begins, but even as he struggles for words, he knows the only answer that will work here. The path that he has committed to. 

He is met only by the other man’s smile. “Go to sleep, Ignacio. We’ll have lots to do in the morning.” 

At Lalo’s insistence, he gingerly lowers himself onto the bed, sinking into the unexpectedly soft blankets. His thoughts wander, as they always do, back to his father and what he would say if he could see his son now. _Things would be so much easier if you turned yourself in, mijo. Look at what you’ve chosen now! The man you are with – he’s dangerous. What do you even know about him?_ An argument over the kitchen table. Long evenings spent huddled in the shadows of that house that doesn’t feel like home. That bone-deep sensation of grief which has faded into numbness over time. _If only I could understand why you do what you do, Ignacio._

A strangled sob escapes him, and he appreciates that Lalo gives no indication at having heard his momentary weakness. The uncertainty over the permanence of Lalo’s forgiveness washes over him, and it takes him a couple of seconds to remember how to breathe. With great effort, he wrestles his emotions back under control, until at last the only thing he can feel is the residual stinging in his arm, fritzing in and out of existence. 

In the blurry space between sleep and wakefulness, between pain and numbness, he is safely suspended. And then, all at once, the exhaustion from the past day’s events hits him. The last image he sees before he drifts off is of Lalo, leaning against the foot of the bed and bathed in moonlight, a bloody wraith calmly observing the bodies of those they had slain and left lying crumpled in the grass.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve gone back through all 3 stories so far to do a count and realized...what is it with me and writing about wrists?
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed! I think for Part 4, we’ll see a cameo from our good friend Joaquin :) Let me know if you have any feedback/thoughts! I’ve started to post excerpts and stuff on Tumblr as well, if you're interested you can find me there @the-parallax-of-rain


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